The Unsinkable Ship
by livrich
Summary: After answering the call of a mysterious message scattered through space, time and his psychic paper, the Doctor finds himself aboard the Unsinkable Ship, the RMS Titanic. Soon,he comes across another version of Clara, and this time he can't help falling in love. Can her fixed point death be rewritten, or can the Doctor save his Impossible Girl in time? Based on the Titanic movie
1. Chapter 1: Southampton

Chapter One-Southampton

Clara Oswin Oswald, socialite and spitfire, stepped out of her carriage lightly, but reluctantly. The smells of the harbor accosted her suddenly, making her crunch her nose in obvious disdain, and her brows furrowed neatly as her eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight her large brimmed hat failed to subdue. People, mostly of working class origins, were bustling about in preparation for the departure of the RMS Titanic. A few model T cars, including the one Clara descended from, shone brightly like gems in the sea of brown and grey rags of the surplus amount of plebeians. Her face, a perfect image of tan yet unblemished skin, turned into a blank canvas as her future husband, Caledon Hockley, came around the back, carrying a number of bags. Clara regarded him with cool appraisal and for the first time looked up at the gleaming white superstructure of the Titanic rising mountainously beyond the pier and into the clear sky.

Clara huffed. "I don't see what all the fuss is about. It doesn't look much bigger than the Muaretania." She would know. She sailed on that ship just a few years prior with her mother, Eleanor 'Ellie' Oswald and a select group from their bridge community. Cal snorted in response. "Clara, stop being so blasé about it. The Titanic has squash courts, a Parisian café…" He opened the door once more and Ellie Oswald stepped out, dressed in a conservative yet highly fashionable maroon gown.

"So this is the ship they say is unsinkable." She, just like her daughter, viewed the ship with a snobbish disinterest. Cal repressed the budding feeling of annoyance at the Oswald women. "It is unsinkable!" He cried almost indignantly, "God himself could not sink this ship."

The three gave their extensive number of bags to the porter who had been shadowing the wealthy company, and, with Cal in the lead, began the walk to the first class gangway. Clara screamed inwardly at the way in which Cal weaved between vehicles and handcarts and pushed aside those dressed in less expensive suits than the one on his back. Yes, most humans were flawed, Clara admitted with a rueful grin no one caught, but Cal was most definitely a gilded soul; sporting a kind and chivalrous façade while harboring a corrupt and tarnished spirit.

The man in question looked back at his darling fiancé. Her measured look sparked anger in him once again, but he quickly suppressed it as Ellie returned to his peripheral vision. "Here, Clara, I've booked us on the grandest ship in history, in the most luxurious of suites, and you act as if you're going to your execution." His voice was tense, yet still cordial.

Clara refused to acknowledge him. Ship of dreams, indeed.

…

The Doctor was a clever fellow. Really, in all of time and space, he had never met anyone as clever as he. Except maybe the Scholarly Worm Deity on Nebula Alpha 007, in which case he had met someone as clever him. The Doctor was, then, the cleverest and most handsome fellow he had ever met. (The Scholarly Worm Deity, in all his splendor, did not really get the long end of the stick in regards to looks) Sometimes he enjoyed playing with people just to showcase his intelligence. Yes, it was one of his worst faults, but sometimes it was just fun to play a few games now and then. Besides, sometimes he would _teach_ the people he subliminally tormented, and wasn't one of his jobs to teach people? He was a professor in many intergalactic universities, so of course the answer would be _yes_.

Currently he was situated in a bohemian bar, the smell of smoke and sweat drifting through his nostrils and around his green eyes. He ran a hand through his mop of hair and adjusted his tweed jacket and bowtie as a sign of comfortable dominance. In front of him sat two rather unintelligent fellows, Olaf and Sven, or Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, as he mentally referred to them as. They had agreed to sell him their tickets to the Titanic if he and his companion, the everly-bellicose Strax, defeated them in poker.

"Doctor, I really do not see the purpose of playing these insolent boys in this Earthly game of mundane dueling. We could easily transport ourselves onto the ship using your TARDIS and avoid wasting our time with these low-intelligence vermin." Strax huffed in his disjointed manner of dialogue. Olaf and Sven laughed at the peculiar looking fellow, completely ignorant to what the alien had said. The Doctor laughed and rubbed Strax's bald head affectionately.

"Strax-y," the Doctor drawled happily, a lopsided grin splashed across his face, "But where's the fun in that, eh?" Besides, the Doctor added inwardly, he wasn't quite sure he would be able to just hop into the TARDIS and transport them right onto the ship. Sure, he could summon her once they got on board the Titanic, but he didn't have the best aim when it came to landing the Old Girl, and he feared he might end up on the Titanic spaceship instead of steamship. "Hit me again, Tweedle Dee." The Doctor said jauntily. He took the card from the Russian and looked at Strax, who avoided taking another card. In the background, the final warning whistle of the Titanic blared. The Doctor took that as his cue.

"Well, the moment of truth boys." At this point, he could barely contain himself. "You know," he said, leaning forward on the rickety table separating the two parties. "I have this rule. It's my Rule Number One. The Doctor always lies." Oh, really, it was getting too good at this point. "But I think I might change that. So, Sven, Olaf, Dee, Dum, Strax, I have adopted a _new_ number one!" He placed the cards down on the table. "The Doctor always wins!" Olaf and Sven slammed their fists down on the table, and Strax collected the acquired money and tickets. The Doctor danced around the table, kissed both foreigners on the crowns of their head, and ran out of the bar towards the leviathan ship.

"Doctor!" Strax shouted as the two were running. "Really, tell me the point of playing that insidious game while we could have just eliminated the human boys and taken their tickets from their cold dead bodies." His request made the Doctor stop and turn around. A dark and sad look was cast over his face like a cloud, and Strax regretted asking almost instantly.

"Strax, I don't know what you know about the Titanic and what happens to it, but let me tell you, it was better I won those tickets off of them. You can't change certain points in history, but sometimes you can cheat. Sometimes, you can save just a few souls."

Another blast from the Titanic's horn made the two run forward past the inspection queue and onto the ship, where they waved goodbye to the people back on the mainland.

"Right, Strax, I have a homing signal on my sonic, so I'll be off to look for a safe place where I can teleport the TARDIS so we can be off whenever we like, after a little exploring of course." The Doctor said, a childish look of excitement on his face as he wrung his hands together. Strax sighed and nodded, saluting to the Doctor walking giddily away.

…

Clara situated herself in the Millionaire Suite comfortably as hand maids and valet boys shuffled about her, making the ornate almost apartment sized room hospitable. The room was decorated in the Empire style, with lush carpets and velvet furniture surrounded by a pale red wall ornately decorated with gold and silver. Clara, perched on a beautiful yet uncomfortable armchair, was scanning through a novel by Amelia Williams called Summer Falls.

Cal, who had been out on the covered deck to oversee the placement of every piece of shrubbery and outdoor furniture, turned around to make sure his fiancé hadn't run off already and groaned at the sight of her reading. "Those books are nothing but a waste of time, darling."

Clara cleared her throat and made a show of turning the page. Her voice, however, was cool and calculated, the complete opposite of the storm brewing inside of her. "You are utterly wrong, Cal. They're fascinating. The books are told like they're dreams… everything is so anachronistic, but it seems so true, and yet it defies reality and logic."

Cal sighed and rolled his eyes. "Williams will never amount to anything, trust me. At least they're short and you can get over with them quickly if you care to."

A knock at the door signaled in another porter and a set of cronies carrying a heavy silver safe. Cal looked at their parcel delightedly. "Put that case in the wardrobe." The small band of men nodded and hustled into the room, with Clara's handmaid, Jenny, behind them. Jenny was a girl plain of appearance but large of heart. She had a pale complexion and Anglo features, including a thick mop of brown hair and a thin frame. Her brown eyes shone bright with excitement as she went over to Clara and assisted her mistress in standing.

"Ma'am, doesn't it smell brand new? Like they built it all just for us. I mean… just to think that tonight, when I crawl between the sheets, I'll be the first…" Her thick accent quivered in her excitement.

Suddenly, Cal appeared in the doorway of the room. "And when I crawl between the sheets tonight, I'll still be the first." His innuendo made Jenny blush, and she quickly made her exit. Clara fought to keep the bile from building up in her stomach as he came over and wrapped her arms around her possessively. As if she was his property, his slave. "The first and only, forever." He nearly whispered, kissing her temple.

My, Clara thought, was the future bleak.

…

Professor River Song, known during the age of the Titanic as the Unsinkable Melody, stepped onto the dock and looked back at the men carrying her bags. He was a spindly fellow, yet horribly out of shape. Short successions of inhales and exhales came from him noisily as he regained a steady heart rate from the sprint he had to endure to keep up with River. "Well, Sweetie, I wasn't going to wait all day for you. Take the bags the rest of the way, if you can manage."

She saw the porter walk off in the direction of her cabin and sighed. Time to find the Doctor.

…

The Palm Court Restaurant was a formal dining room in a relaxed sense of the word. The French styled doors opened up onto the outside deck, allowing the sea breeze to perfume the air and sunlight to stream in and cast the first class socialites in an appropriate golden hue. Although well decorated, the Palm Court Restaurant was by no means the most lavish; the walls were a pale crème color and the dining room furniture lacked any styling besides the intricate lace doilies and table cloths.

"Well," the builder of the ship, a surprisingly humble man by the name of Andrews, said, "I may have knocked her together, but the idea for the ship was Mr. Ismay's." He gestured over to an aging fellow who was laughing genially. "He envisioned a steamer so grand in scale, and so luxurious in its appointments, that its supremacy would never be challenged. And here she is…" He slapped his calloused palm onto the table with a definite bang. "Willed into _solid_ reality." The group of socialites laughed and smiled at the outgoing man. River, who was situated at the table, spoke up.

"Why, Mr. Andrews, are ships always referred to as a she? It is because men think half the women around have big sterns and should be weighed in tonnage?" Her smart remark earned a laugh, and River hastily covered for her outlandish behavior by taking a sip of tea. Really, she was getting bored acting ladylike among these high bred women. Especially the one in that horrid maroon outfit and the mousy brown hair.

The young woman next to the old stiff, probably her daughter, hastily took out a cigarette and attached it to a filter pipe. The middle aged hag glared at her daughter. "Clara, you know I don't like that."

Clara. Oh no. River's eyes widened. That's not… her mind struggled to grasp the gravity of the situation she had stumbled into. That's not possible.

A gentleman nodded and snatched the cigarette rather rudely from Clara. "She knows." River watched the transaction from the corner of her eye and noted the hot tears that threatened to spill from the Impossible Girl's face. Only harsh training and well grooming prevented the deluge, River figured.

Her mind was racing as Cal ordered for Rose ("You like lamb, don't you sweetpea?"). She had never met the Doctor's companion, but she had heard stories of her before. The Girl Twice Dead. The one killed by the Daleks, and the one tragically lost in Victorian England. Both the same Clara, both dead because of their efforts to save the Doctor.

If he was here….

"Excuse me." Clara said, her voice quiet and barely suppressing her frustration. She got up from the table and hustled away.

Oh, dear.

…

The Doctor was sitting on a bench in the evening sun, though the calming rays did little to quell his anxiety. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind as he observed the wake of the Titanic spread out behind him into the vast horizon. Being on the ship was a challenge for him, no doubt. He was so conflicted. The Titanic was a fixed point in time. He could not change the events of the fateful night slowly creeping closer. And yet, just as he had saved Sven and Olaf, he wished he could save a few more without creating a paradox of any kind. In his thousand years of living, the Doctor had lost so many and failed to save almost all his companions and friends he had collected over the years. They fixed him, and he in turn showed them the stars, which in some ways fixed them as well, but their relief was only temporary, as without fail he would lose someone again. Just like Rose. Just like Donna, and the Ponds. Even Clara. The one he swore he would protect. He would not let her die, and yet he lost her again.

Something, the Doctor doesn't know what, seeing as he doesn't believe in divine luck, because the Time Lords invented the antiquated theory of it (he had, in fact, been at the meeting to discuss luck's creation) and everything happened for a reason. He looked up at her, and instantly felt his hearts stop. Up on the first class promontory deck stood a woman. Her shoulders were pulled back elegantly and her chin high, yet the Doctor could tell she was shaking from suppressed emotion. A nose that turned in such a way that her face looked like that of a fairy. A head of brown hair so glossy it felt softer than silk. And those eyes that he could see with his superior sense of sight (Amy's reading glasses be damned). Those eyes that sparkled and inspired mischief. He remembered looking into those eyes nearly every day.

Their gazes met across the space of the well deck, across the gulf between worlds. A man came up behind her suddenly and took her arm, only to be roughly pushed away by the woman. Suddenly, after an exchange of words, she stormed away and he followed, the pair disappearing along the A-deck promenade. The Doctor stared after them.

Clara Oswald.

His Impossible Girl.

On the Titanic.

…

Well, there's chapter one! I know it's totally AU, but I really could not resist the prospect of writing this after watching Titanic and marathoning Doctor Who in the same day. Maybe five reviews for the next chapter? Tell me what you think!

-livrich


	2. Chapter 2: Jump

Hi! Chapter two already- whoa! I plan on updating once a week but I figured I would get this chapter out there for the weekend. I appreciate all the reviews and constructive criticism- please keep them coming! Reviews mean more chapters! Anyway, I hope I'm getting the characters right- both in Clara's modern Clara/Rose hodgepodge of personality and the Doctor's enigmatic one- tell me if I am! Well, on with the show!

…

An endless parade of parties and cotillions, yachts and polo matches… always the same narrow people, the same mindless chatter. She was trapped in the cycle of fake smiles and empty promises and proper manners, forever. _What_, Clara thought as she dug a small fork from her crab salad into her forearm, _is the _point_?_ Her grip slipped slightly as the tongs finally broke through the skin. Clara's dark brown eyes shone slightly from the pain, but as a waiter came to remove her barely touched meal, she smiled slightly and nodded, perfectly composed.

Just as the plate was whisked away Clara jumped to her feet. Ellie looked at her, accosted, and their dinner guests, the strange 'Unsinkable' Melody, Mr. Ismay and Mr. Andrews, all had varying degrees of shock on their face.

"Sweetpea, are you feeling unwell?" Cal asked, placing a hand on her elbow and squeezing tightly. His upper lip twitched. Clara threw her head down in the direction of Cal. "Yes," she stammered. The anguished girl cursed at herself for the way her voice shook with emotion. "I just am feeling rather sick. Please, excuse me." Quickly she wrenched her arm out of Cal's vice grip and trotted away.

Clara could feel the eyes of her first class co-passengers and the cold appraisal they shot at her. Look at her, she imagined them saying, too weak to endure the world of the wealthy, and too fragile to endure the reality and pressure of her life. Now in a full sprint, Clara tore through the dining room and onto the B deck promenade. Her hair, previously tied in an intricate bun, was now disheveled and flying about her face. The tears falling from her face tasted salty with anguish and hot with furious self hatred. A couple arm in arm passed her and blatantly turned their heads to observe as she continued hastily to wherever her feet would take her.

Suddenly feeling suffocated, Clara ripped at her necklace and tossed it behind her, the sound of the pearls like harsh rain drops on the wooden deck. _Stop it!_ She commanded herself. _Stop crying_.

…

"Clara." The Doctor whispered the name, savoring the way it danced off his lips and into the blustery night. He hadn't seen his Impossible Girl in a number of years. Their ending had been a dark day in a long string of tragedies the Doctor endured, and he refused to dwell on it too long. For his sake, and for the memory of her.

But now here she was again. Clara. She wasn't the Clara he grew so fond of, and she wasn't Oswin, and definitely wasn't the moonlighting governess that courageously saved his life. No, this woman he saw on the A deck just a few short hours ago was a new Clara, another version of his companion that had been scattered across time.

And she was on the Titanic.

The Doctor felt like screaming when he realized he was on this ship. If her death was a fixed point in time, saving her could create a paradox that could potentially alter the history of the ship's untimely sinking. A black hole could form over the Atlantic, universes might collapse. All because Clara was _Clara_ and she shouldn't be here because there have already been three versions of her, each of which he lost.

But he couldn't just _abandon_ her. She was Clara. His companion. The one who fixed his hearts after he lost his Roman Soldier and his Very Best Friend. Everything about her was magical, enigmatic in many ways, even. The Doctor couldn't imagine leaving her to suffer _yet again_. An image of her blue, lifeless body bobbing in the frantic waves of the icy Atlantic surfaced in the front of his mind.

Suddenly nervous, the Doctor pulled out his psychic paper and read again what the message he received the day before said. '_Titanic, Send help. Doctor. –A' _The words flashed and pulsed like a heartbeat. The Doctor rammed his head and searched every cranny of his memory, trying to think of someone he had impacted whose name began with A that might also be on the Titanic. Not a single face came to mind.

Strax appeared a moment later. "Doctor, I have come across something that might interest us."

The Doctor motioned to the bench he was sitting on and grunted, hardly in the mood to talk. Strax clunked over and sat down. He twisted body to look at the Doctor and began his speech.

"It seems that the message you received on your psychic paper had the same identification script as the message we found on Anima Persis and Bruydac. I am aware we know that the source originated from the Titanic, but as I was analyzing the codes, I came across something. The source doesn't exist."

The Doctor looked up. "What are you talking about, Strax? You just told me that it came from the Titanic." His eyebrows knit together, thousands of conclusions running through his mind, and none of them making sense or making the Doctor comfortable.

Strax attempted to shake his head, but due to his lack of neck, his whole body rotated instead. "The source was transmitted from the Titanic, but it is constantly changing in inconclusive ways. When you first encountered the message through your superior psychic abilities on Anima Persis, the message was exactly fifty thousand years old, and now the message is only a few days old with no traceable origin other than the longitudinal and latitudinal coordinates of the Titanic's dock at Southampton. And on Bruydac, the message was inscribed on all ancient and sacred documents and testaments of the native population, making it roughly eight million earth years old."

"So," The Doctor said, lowering his weary eyes, "We have an anachronistic message with no way of telling who sent it or how, and it seems another version of Clara is on the ship as well." He looked up at Strax to judge his reaction to the last bit of information.

The alien visibly blanched. "Doctor, I instruct you to inform me of this nonsense you have just spoken. How can your previous companion be here, once again?"

The Doctor shrugged his shoulders and looked down again, trying to calm his emotions. "You'd know better than me, Old Straxy."

The two sat in silence, both unable and unwilling to say anything else. Eventually, Strax departed, saying he should go back to his quarters before the rush of passengers returning from dinner saw him and began to spread rumors about the deformed man riding in third class.

The Doctor remained in his exact position until the sound of frantic footfalls made his ears twitch. He looked up and, to a strange mix of elation and dismay, saw Clara running up from the well deck onto the deserted fantail. The crying girl slammed herself against the base of the stern flagpole and clung there, panting and staring out at the black water.

He wants to run to her, grasp her in his arms and whisper words of safety to her, but the horror gripping his hearts stops him. Clara had begun, clumsily, to climb over the railing, hitching her long beaded dress up. She moved methodically, turning her body to the vast expanse of ocean churning beneath them. Her body leaned forward, hypnotized by the vortex below her.

Suddenly one of her hands slacked, and the Doctor cried out in dismay, "Don't do it!"

Clara whipped her head around at the sound of his voice, and oh, Rassilon, it was her. The same upturned nose, the same brown eyes. The same small chin and gentle cheekbones. The same Clara.

"Stay back! Don't come any closer!" Her hand returned to the vice like grip from before. The sound of her voice, despite the hum and crash from the churning propellers and rocking sea, cut clearly to the depths of his hearts. She was unmistakably Clara, even so that her voice was the same as he remembered. The Doctor's green eyes swam in their own ocean for a second before he blinked them back. The stern running lights illuminated her face eerily, and the Doctor could easily make out the tear tracks streaming down her face and the small streak of blood running down her forearm.

"Take my hand. I'll pull you back in." He reached for her, wiggling his fingers desperately. _Please_, he thought, _just listen this one time_.

"No!" She shook her head. _Of course_ The Doctor thought with a scowl. "Stay where you are. I mean it. I'll let go." She waved a hand at him, as if foreshadowing a farewell.

But what could he possibly say to her that would convince her not to end her life? "No, you won't." Brilliant response. Practically standing ovation worthy. He should ring up Shakespeare when he has the chance and tell him that yes, in fact, he could have that line.

Clara scoffed at him defiantly. "What do you mean no I won't? You can't just tell me what I will and will not do. You don't know me."

Yes, yes he did. He knew her so well. A vice like grip wrapped around the Doctors heart just to punctuate the cruelty of looking into such a familiar face and receiving no sense of recollection from her.

"Ye…You would have done it already. Now come on, promise I won't bite." He smiled gently at her and took a tentative step forward. Clara looked at him inquisitively now, her face now a portrait of curiosity rather than fear and pain. In that moment, she looked astounding like _Clara_. A small hand reached out reflexively, as if judging if it was safe or not. Apparently, it wasn't, because she almost slipped, which elicited a small shrill shriek from her. The Doctor leapt forward a few feet and stopped once she regained her balance.

"You're distracting me. Go away." Her voice broke, ruining her chances at an authoritative order.

The Doctor almost laughed. "Sorry, no can do. See, I'm involved now. If you let go, well, I would have to jump in after you."

Clara shot a glare at him. "Don't be absurd. You'll be killed."

_Well, if it persuades her…_ The Doctor shrugged and removed his long jacket. "I've really got nothing to lose. Plus, I'm a rather good swimmer. Been told so by some amphibious friends a while back."

She shook her head. "You really are failing to make any sort of sense right now. Besides, the fall along would kill you. Oh, and _stop_ taking your clothes off." She barked as he began taking a shoe off.

_There you are, _he thought. "Yes, I do think it would hurt quite a bit. But you know, I'm more preoccupied with the possible temperature of the water." His clever remark made Clara look down, the reality of her situation sinking in.

"Well, how cold? Tell me."

The Doctor removed his shoe completely and briefly debated taking his sock off- they were rather nice ones River had knitted for him while she was in Stormcage, made out of a special wool that changed pattern to match his bowtie- and, after deciding not to take them off quite yet, he remember to respond to her. He quickly removed his sonic and pressed the small button right under the little knobbly button and after a quick sonic-y scan, he inspected the data. "Just 1.23 degrees above freezing, and dropping every eight point three minutes." He looked up at her and grinned, pocketing the sonic.

"What is that?" She inquired, twisting her body to get a better look at the screwdriver.

"Oh, that old thing? It's a thermometer. Yes, I use it to test water and air temperatures. The green light and buzzing are really just for show. Like a good show, me. Have you ever been to the North Pole? Or the South, doesn't really matter which. Not picky." He was having fun with her, of course, but anything to distract her from going over was okay with him.

Perplexed, she answered, "No, of course not. I've never heard of anyone who has."

"Well, they have the coldest winters, summers, spring, and falls around. Been there a few times there. Went with a friend you remind me of. We were even accompanied by some rather feisty Russians. Well, when we were returning to my…ship… my friend fell through some ice, and obviously I had to go in after her. Water that cold… like that right down there," He motioned to the ocean below. "You can't breathe, or think, least not about anything but the pain." His voice dropped down to barely above a whisper. For a moment they listened to the sound of the water and the wind whipping around them.

The Doctor broke out of his reverie and smiled sadly. "That's why I'm not looking forward to jumping in after you. But, like I said, I don't see a choice, and I am a good swimmer. Really though, this would all be over with if you would just come back over the rail and 'get me off the hook'."

Clara almost laughed aloud. "You're crazy."

"Most call me a madman. The good and proper kind, too, that lives in a box and everything. But with all due respect, I'm not mad enough to jump off the back of a ship, though trust me, I have been tempted." Slowly, the Doctor slipped a fraction closer to the frazzled girl.

"Please," he nearly begged. "You don't want to do this. Just, give me your hand."

For a while, they're in a stalemate. Clara looked him over once, twice, and then a few times more, as if trying to place just who this man really was. The Doctor didn't mind, obviously. He took the opportunity to just observe her. The peculiar way her eyebrows twitched, and the small frown that made her chin bunch slightly. _Clara_, the thought, _there you are._

As if she heard him, Clara made eye contact with the Doctor and became transfixed. He could almost hear his hearts stop when his green orbs settled into the warm gaze of her chocolate ones.

"Alright." She muttered in a voice high with uncertainty. Methodically, she unfastened one hand from the rail and reached it around towards the Doctor. He returned the gesture and took it firmly.

The sensation of having her hand in his again nearly made him weep. Clara looked down at their joined hands and then looked back at the Doctor's eyes, transfixed. His precious Clara…

"Hello," he said softly, "I'm the Doctor."

"Doctor who?"

The corners of his lips turned upwards. "Just the Doctor."

"Well, pleased to meet you, Doctor." She began to turn and then slowly began to climb over the rail. So immersed in the proximity of his Clara was the Doctor he didn't even notice the way her dress snagged between her feet and the railing. Suddenly, Clara plunged and let out a piercing shriek. The Doctor gripped her hand tighter as he was jerked towards the rail.

"Help! Help!"

"I've got you. I won't let go." Adrenaline surged through the Doctor, and with a heave he began to lift her up. Once high enough, Clara tried to grip at the bottom rail but slipped back, screaming again.

_Oh, Rassilon, help me, _the Doctor prayed as he surged into another effort to help Clara back up.

Although he did not believe in miracles or any real sort of God, the Doctor in years to come would not be able to explain where the extra bought of strength came from that allowed him to haul the hanging girl over the railing. But, at last he did, and in both exhaustion and relief, he allowed his muscles to give out, and they both tumbled to the ground.

Clara looked up at the mysterious man called the Doctor, now inches from her face. He returned the gaze, and instantly wished he didn't. Something inside him was wearing down and fraying. He could feel it.

Suddenly, a foreign, angry voice exclaimed, "Here, what's all this?!"

Honestly, it really _was_ only a matter of time before he got into proper trouble.

…

Well, there it is! I know it was only one scene in the movie but it was a lot of writing. Ahhh I'm so excited for the season finale that's on tonight. To be honest, I haven't been sold on the second part of the series, but I'm really hoping Moffat can restore some faith in me. The reviews were really appreciated guys, thanks a bunch! Please keep them coming!(six or seven until next chapter?) They make me write faster and keep the inspiration coming. Also, props to anyone who can name what episode Anima Persis was in- let me know if you know! (Also, major props to the ones who can point out which planet the Doctor encountered amphibious people on)

Have a great week! See you guys next Friday or Saturday. Or sooner. Ya never know ;) (but you will if you follow and favorite!)

-livrich


	3. Chapter 3: Le Coeur de la Mer

Hi again- chapter three is up! This week has been so dreary and tiring and surprisingly busy, so sorry I couldn't get this out earlier. I really enjoyed the Name of the Doctor, and I guess it kind of makes this Clara another echo the Doctor just didn't hear. But, come on Doctor, you can't just kiss your dead wife and then hug your companion and be all "Clara! My Clara!" and kiss her head. It gets the fans all confused. Anyway, hope you guys enjoy the chapter!

…

Rowe was always proud to call himself Quartermaster of the Titanic. To control the decks of such a colossal ship felt like a blessing sent straight from God. So far the voyage had been rather peaceful, with even the third class mongrels behaving themselves. Rowe paused on the top of the A deck and breathed in the crisp night air. The steady breeze tickled his beard and he could taste the sea salt on the corners of his mouth. The ocean. Nothing could overcome it; it held the power of God and churned and consumed anything that challenged its power. Except, of course, the Titanic. Rowe reveled in being in control of such a beast of steel.

At first he didn't hear the cries for help. He merely thought the shrill echoes were from his weakening ears being caught in a particularly harsh burst of air. Then he heard a quick succession of "Help! Help!" Adrenalin pounding in his veins, Rower ran down the ladder from the docking bridge and sprinted across the fantail. He was greeted by a ghastly sight; a fellow in rather odd dress was toppled over a particularly beautiful woman. Rowe faltered for a second, thinking they may have just stumbled and fell down onto the deck, but then his eyes drifted over to the man's discarded shoes, and the cries of help were quickly put into context.

"Here, what's all this?" He exclaimed as he ran up to the man to pull him off of the damsel. The poor dear, obviously of wealth based on the intricacies of her evening gown, was obviously shaken from the attack. Tears streamed down her lovely face and Rowe couldn't help his eyes from scanning the rest of her body. A tear raced up from the hemline to a rather inappropriate height, displaying a ripped stocking and a scraped knee. Breathless from the effort of lifting the strange man off the woman, Rowe called over two crew members. The blokes marched over diligently and took the spindly fellow in their clutches, despite his attempts to wriggle his way free.

"Don't think about moving an inch." Rowe raised a finger at the man and then nodded at the seamen. "Fetch the Master at Arms."

…

The Doctor could not believe what was happening. He had been put in handcuffs before, but only when he _deserved_ to be. There was that time on Nabuine when he told the planet's rather corpulent queen to lay off the deserts, and then there was that one time with King Henry the Eighth when the Doctor shouted "Off with your head!" It had been a joke, of course, but Old Henry didn't really appreciate it, clearly. And, of course, there was that one time with River…

He was broken out of his reverie a few minutes later when, after sitting on a bench with the Master at Arms and Clara standing off to the side obviously distressed, an angry looking man barreled down the promenade with a man the Doctor recognized as Colonel Archibald Gracie, a mustachioed blowhard who really just was a footnote in the history of the Titanic, and… oh my.

The third companion of Cal's stopped short when their gaze met the Doctor's piercing one. There was a slight hesitation, whether out of recognition or fear from the icy glare, but the reverie was broken when the infuriated fellow grabbed the Doctor by the lapels.

"Oi! Hands off, I'm an antique!" The Doctor quipped as he squirmed back and forth to shake the man's grip on his beloved purple tweed coat.

"What made you think you could put your hands on my fiancée? Look at me, you filth! What did you think you were doing?!" He was getting rather close to the Doctor at this point. Calmly, the Time Lord returned the man's gaze and smirked sadly once the man's words were fully processed. Fiancée, eh? He refused to look at Clara in fear that he wouldn't be able to hold himself back anymore.

"Cal, stop! It was an accident!" Clara called, still a safe distance away from him. The Doctor glanced at her then, his eyes sad.

"An accident?" The man apparently called Cal- what an awful name- looked around disbelievingly. Clara nodded. "It was stupid, really. I was leaning over and I slipped." Her gaze slid over to meet the Doctor's, and he swore he saw her wink ever so slightly.

The Doctor began to play along. "Ah, yes. She was leaning over to see the-"  
"Propellers!" She interjected. "And I slipped, and I would have gone overboard, and the Doctor here saved me and he almost went over himself." The left corner of her mouth turned up slightly, making the Doctor break into a wide grin that earned him a glare from all the men.

"Women and machinery do not mix." Colonel Gracie muttered jokingly, shaking his head in disbelief. The Doctor looked over at the Colonel and sighed.

"Oh, Women and machinery get along fine. I'm a captain of a ship of sorts myself, when I feel like it, and I happen to know a woman who maneuvers Her almost as well as I do, and trust me, I've had practice." The Doctor smirked at the third companion who glared back insolently. "Mrs. Robinson, her name was. Lovely woman. Died a while ago, though." He smiled at the rest of men surrounding him, each more confused than the last. Clara, he noted with a small smile, merely looked entranced.

"Was that the way of it?" The Master of Arms asked, eager to return to the point. Once again, the Doctor could not help but look at his past companion. Instead of amused, her eyes betrayed a fear and sadness akin to her condition previously in the night. The Doctor sighed, but nodded. "Yes, that was the way of it."

Gracie guffawed and clapped a bearish hand on the Doctor's back. "Well, the man's a hero then! Good for you, son, well done!" He looked back at Cal as he undid the cuffs on the Doctor's hands. "Back to the brandy, eh? I feel that we'll need the drinks even more now that the night has unveiled such drama."  
The well groomed betrothed nodded and gestured to the men to follow. Gracie grasped Cal's arm and whispered lowly, "Ah… perhaps a little something for the boy?"

"Boy!" The Doctor exclaimed happily. "Haven't been called that in ages, quite flattering of you."

Cal looked the man over in disgust. He was dressed well enough, maybe a second class passenger, or a third that just had one good suit, but the styling was old and rather garish. The oddly colored bowtie didn't much help his appearance, either. Cal rolled his eyes and then held the gaze of the fellow that Clara called 'The Doctor'-what an awful name-and regretted it instantly. Now, Cal Hockley was not a poetic gentleman in any sense of the word, but looking into the large green eyes of the Doctor was like looking into the heart of an oncoming storm. They churned and glinted with steely emotion, and Cal wondered briefly if this man was who he appeared to be. Despite his fear, he maintained his cool attitude.

"Oh, of course. Gracie. A twenty should do it." He flicked a few fingers in the direction of the Doctor and once again began to turn away before Clara spoke up.

"Is that the going rate for saving the woman you love?"

Anger flared inside Cal, his hands twitching and his eyebrows knotting into concentration. He pivoted slowly on the spot and looked down at Clara. "You are displeased… mmm… what to do?" A condescending sneer marred his relatively handsome face. Not one to back down from his cool gaze, Clara merely smirked cockily at him, a thin eyebrow raised in mocking inquiry. Realizing his defeat, Cal shifted his body to face the Doctor.

"Perhaps you could join us for dinner tomorrow, to regale our group with your heroic tale?"

The Doctor smiled sagely. "I've a few to tell. Sure, count me in."

"Good, it's settled then." Mr. Hockley grabbed Clara possessively and held her to him protectively as they began to walk away.

"Mind if I have a mo'?" The Doctor inquired quietly as the third companion began to walk away.

"I don't know, can you?" Was their steely reply.

"Really, Mrs. Robinson, you're nearly as old as I am, and that's the only thing you can come up with?" The Doctor muttered lowly, drawing closer to the woman.

River felt like smacking him at that moment. "I figured you would be here. That message that's been scattered across time space, like a warning. How could you possibly resist? Even though it's much too dangerous." Despite her initial anger, she drew close to him and tentatively placed a cool hand on his chest. A sense of comfort flowed through her as she felt his dual heartbeats thump beneath his vest and jacket. Her eyes looked up to her husband's and instantly she regretted it. He was glaring at her, as if she had done something wrong. He took a deep breath and the next words felt like oil and fire against River's skin.

"Well, River Song, it certainly didn't stop you, and you're supposed to be dead."

…

Back in the Millionaire suite, Clara began preparing herself for bed, eager to fall asleep and forget the turbulent events of the night. As she removed her silk slip from her body she spotted Cal in the vanity mirror. Hastily, Clara grabbed her night gown and threw it over her shoulders. "Cal," She hissed warningly. "What are you doing?"

"I know you've been melancholy," he said slowly as he prowled towards her, "and I don't pretend to know why." His hands were behind his back, and, ever curious, Clara craned her neck to look around before looking back at her fiancée questioningly. He chuckled quietly and brought a large black velvet jewel case out from behind him. Clara looked at it, her expression now blank, and accepted it numbly.

He motioned towards her vanity chair, and she complied and sat down. "I intended to save this till the engagement gala next week, but I thought tonight, perhaps, a reminder of my feelings for you…" His voice whispered down her spine and crept into her skin like acid. Clara shivered. Fingers quivering, she opened the box slowly. Inside sat a malevolent blue stone glittering with an infinity of scalpel-like inner reflections.

Despite herself, Clara felt emotion well inside her. "My God… Cal. Is it a-"

"Diamond. Yes it is. Fifty six carats." He took the necklace and placed it around her throat. "It was once worn by Louis the Sixteenth. They call it the Le Coeur de la Mer, the-"

"The Heart of the Ocean" She translated breathlessly. "Cal, it's… it's overwhelming." He looked at the pair of them through the mirror, his face nearly impossible to read. He sighed and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"It's for royalty," his said in a visceral growl, "And we are royalty."

…

"Doctor, I have learned from this tiny boy that there might be things of interest down in the cargo hold." Strax said, pointing to a child nearly the same height as the Sontaran.

"I am _not _a boy!" The young girl whined in a thick Norwegian accent.

The Doctor paid no attention to either of them, despite the slight spark of interest in investigating the cargo hold for maybe the fifteenth time. He was holding the TARDIS down there, so of course he went to check in on her every chance he could. You just can't trust humans with a big blue box.

His thoughts were currently on Clara, and when he wasn't thinking about Clara, his mind tended to stray towards River. River Song, or the Unsinkable Melody, as she was so humbly referred to as. Supposedly because she had survived a number of sinking ships in her adventures at sea. If only that were half the truth.

No, what frustrated the Doctor was that Clara was here, even though he knew she wasn't _Clara._ The distraught first class beauty he rescued from committing suicide was merely an echo of his past companion, a specter, a shadow, a macabre distortion of her actual presence in the universe. But the thing was, this Clara _was Clara_. She had the same clever, cocky smirk and the same pointy nose. And no matter how many times the Doctor told himself that she wasn't real, it got harder and harder to believe every time he remembered the absolute humanity of the girl leaning over the railing. This Clara, although she was another echo, was very much real.

But if he had come across an echo here that meant that she was going to die saving him. It was April 13th, 1912. Only one day separated him from solving the mystery of the letter, sorting out the mess River created by projecting herself here, and to save Clara once again while trying to save himself. Clara, the Doctor decided, came above all these things without a question or a doubt. Because no matter what happened, even if it meant sacrificing his own life, by the moons of Gallifrey the Doctor swore he would not let this Clara die.

And then, there was the problem of River. How on earth had she projected herself here, as a mere image? She had died long before the graveyard at Trenzalore, and the only reason she was there was because she was linked to Clara's memory.

Well, his Impossible Girl _was_ always full of surprises.

The lower deck of the third class quarters was the social center of steerage life. Stark by comparison to the opulence of first class, obviously, but it was a loud, boisterous place. Mothers with babies, kids running between the benches yelling in several languages and being scolded in several more, old women yelling, men playing chess, girls reading dime novels, and the flighty strumming of an out of tune upright piano from various novices littered the scene. The Doctor, still set on ignoring Strax and the young girl, felt an odd sense of community watching these humans. And of course, an overwhelming sense of sadness. Probably all of these people were going to die here, and he couldn't do anything about it.

_But who sent the message? Who sent the A?_

"Doctor, I implore you to-" But Strax's command was cut short as his eyes caught the image of Clara, dressed in a pale yellow dress that glowed in the sunlight, taking a few steps down. As if in a dreamlike trance, a hush fell over the entire crowd as she tentatively descended. Suddenly self-counscious, Clara grinned sheepishly and looked down, loose curls from her styled hair cascading down her face and framing it perfectly. Of course the Doctor would never admit it, but in that moment, he had never seen such a beautiful sight.

"Hello, Doctor." She said, her voice weak with entrancement. Looking at this man was like looking at the stars at night. There was something otherworldly, something large and massive and temporal, but also something sad and lonely. He had seen too much, lived too nomadically, she decided subconsciously. But something drew her in.

His smile was sad, but it met his eyes anyway. "Hello again."

Clara looked around, very much aware of all the eyes trained on her. "Could I speak to you alone?" She whispered.

At first he couldn't quite comprehend what she said, but with a small nudge from the young Norwegian girl- he would have to thank her later- spoke quickly, "Uh, yes. Of course. After you."

The two walked back up the ladder Clara originally descended from and onto the boat deck. They strolled casually side by side, both cognizant of the curious stares at the mismatched couple they were receiving from the first class socialites.

"So," The Doctor begins, wringing his hands nervously, "Might I ask your name?"

"Clara. Clara Oswin Oswald." She responded articulately.

The Doctor broke into a wide grin. "Now, that's a name!" He exclaimed. "Name of a superhero, a heroine in a book."

Instantly, he regretted his flamboyant outburst, because she glared at him before scanning around to make sure no one had overheard. The two walked in silence for a bit, and the entire time the Doctor scolded himself for not remembering that, while she was Clara, she was a different Clara in a different life with a different set of rules.

"Doctor, I… I feel like such an idiot." She burst, throwing her hands in the air in utter frustration. "I want to thank you for what you did, and for your discretion."

He looked at her sadly. "You're welcome, Clara." Saying the name out loud was like a release. Instantly the Doctor felt more alive than he had in eons.

"Look," She began hotly, "I know what you must be thinking! Poor little rich girl. What does she know about misery?"

Something inside the Doctor snapped right there, and he surged in front of Clara and grabbed her hand. It felt like it did to hold his Clara's hand- relatively, if not completely, perfect. "Hey," he whispered in a sad voice. "That's not what I was thinking. No, not at all. I was wondering what could have happened to hurt you so much that made you think you had no way out." Just the thought of her being depressed to the point of suicide sent the Doctor's blood aflame. How dare one of his companions be so distressed they felt the need to end their life?

Clara looked at him with bright brown eyes before slipping her hand out of his and resuming their walk. "It wasn't just one thing." Her voice was soft, as if the pain was silencing her, "I just had to get away from them, their whole world. I found myself running and running, and then I was at the back rail and there was no more ship, and before I knew it, I had found my way out. I was so furious! Oh God, I am such a fool!" She seemed to scold herself, and the Doctor smiled before realizing the way her monologue had resurfaced her anguish. Hastily, he changed the subject.

"That ape last night, is he one of them?" An image of that buffoon grasping his jacket flashed before the Doctor's eyes.

"Ape? Oh, Cal! He _is_ them."

"Is he your…ah… interest?" He tried to phrase it delicately, but he didn't dare saying anything remotely human, in fear he would somehow solidify the possible reality of their situation by saying it himself.

Clara cast a sideways glance at him and chuckled before sighing. "Worse I'm afraid." Shakily, she stuck a hand out in his direction.

The Doctor swore right then and there that his hearts stopped for the second-third?-time in the past two days.

A sizable diamond was situated on Clara's ring finger.

He gulped. "Oh!" He drawled, "You would have gone straight to the bottom with that thing, shame you didn't try." His humor worked, because they both shared a quick laugh before resuming the conversation.

"Don't marry him, Clara." The Doctor implored.

"If only it were that simple."

"It is that simple."

"Doctor, please don't judge me until you've seen my world."

_I have_. _And don't judge me until you've seen mine_, he thought. It was right below them. He could whisk her away to another planet, and they could run away together again, and he would save her from dying on this ship, and from Cal, and from the ring on her finger and all the connotations it held on its silver band. But then there was Strax and River, and that letter. _Titanic, Send help. Doctor. –A._

"Well, I guess I will tonight." He said, smiling, holding out his arms. Clara looked at him, an awkward smile plastered on her face, before the gleaming sunlight caught something on the inside of his jacket pocket.

"What's that?" Forgetting her lessons in personal boundaries and the fact that they were in public, Clara reached into the jacket pocket to grasp at the metal device that caught her attention. For a second, the Doctor froze. Having Clara in such close proximity frightened him. It was all he could do to stop grabbing her and crushing her in a hug and kissing her forehead while simultaneously scolding her for leaving him once again even though this version of her hadn't done that yet. Caught up in all these thoughts, he was incapable of reacting to her prying fingers, and by the time she nicked the sonic, it was too late.

"Ah, that's my… screwdriver." He finished lamely, figuring the truth was less odd than a lie.

She held it in her hands gingerly, as if it were a living thing. "It seems oddly familiar to me, and I can't quite think of why. It's like…"

Slowly, Clara wrapped one hand around the sonic and pushed one of its many buttons. It whirred to life, and with a start Clara dropped it onto the deck. Hastily the Doctor surged down to retrieve it, holding it to his ear to make sure nothing got jumbled from the impact with the ground.

Clara's eyes glazed over for a second before snapping back at her new companion with a clear fire blazing in her brown orbs. "I remember…"

Once again, the Doctor was afraid. Very afraid.

…

Well, that was a long one. I had to change up the scene with the drawings because, while he did draw a lot of pictures of Clara, I kind of had to get the ball rolling and make her discover just how inhuman the Doctor is. The ending might not exactly lead to what you're thinking though ;) make sure to follow and review- reviews mean chapters on Fridays/Saturdays or earlier if I can get around to it! (seriously though, please review. Criticism, what you like, what you want to happen, what you think will happen, it's all welcome. I have a certain number I'd like to hit before the fourth chapter but I won't tell you so you'll have to review to make sure we get there! Mwahaha.)

Anyway, have a great weekend!

-livrich.


	4. Chapter 4: Making it Possible

Okay… let me apologize for not updating over the past forever- I was really trying to focus on the end of school and then I got shipped off to my Cape Cod house and my parents were like NO COMPUTER BLAH ... but now that that's over and I more or less survived finals so now updates will become at least weekly again(provided my parents don't unleash another sneak attack on me) ! Allonsy! Remember to Read and Review

…

"Remember? What do you remember?" The Doctor felt his hearts thumping wildly, threatening to break out of his heaving chest. Millions of thoughts swam through his brain, each charged with fear and adrenaline.

"I remember…" Clara said weakly. "I remember something about this." She said, holding the screwdriver in clammy, shaky hands. "When I was little…was I little…?" Her voice tapered off and her eyes drifted closed briefly. "My stars…" She stumbled suddenly, only to have the Doctor sweep down and grasp her under her armpits.

"Clara!" He exclaimed in panic. "Clara, hold on!" Images of Trenzalore flashed through his brain and the way her conscious exposure to his time stream nearly weakened her to the point of death. If she died again…

His beautiful, impossible girl heaved herself out of her grasp and said with a faint laugh in her voice, "You have to forgive me. I don't remember anymore. It's like it was a dream, but it's gone now. All I felt was falling, like I was tumbling down a rabbit hole." Her brown eyes, cloudy with frightened tears, looked up at his pale orbs, and she smiled weakly.

'_A rabbit hole or my timeline'_ The Doctor internally corrected. As Clara began to walk, still clutching the screwdriver, the Doctor hesitated. If being around her was so volatile, how could he be so cruel as to make her remember everything? How could he stay with her if it could kill her?

…

They spent much of the day together, conversing idly at times but largely remaining silent, mostly on part of the Doctor, who refused to say anything that would trigger any response similar to the one earlier in the day. He had retrieved his screwdriver from her curious clutches and made a mental note not to be _too _clever. Of course, he adored showing off, especially to Clara, who would always smile and respond with a cheeky remark he came to expect and adore. So his resolve melted relatively quickly, well, _instantly_, and by this point in the day he had counted approximately fifty different clever remarks on his part and sixty point five quips from her, the half percent being a look she gave him when he said he spoke fluent baby.

Currently they were walking down the perimeter of the boat, Clara's hand lightly dancing along the glossy wooden rail. It had been companionable silence between them for the past few minutes, and she was aching to talk to him again. The brilliant man she just could not seem to ignore. "You know, my dream has always been to just chuck it all and become an artist… living in a garret, poor but free." She giggled girlishly, covering her mouth with her dainty hand. People lounging in deck chairs, basking in the slanting late afternoon light, admired the couple despite the gentleman's odd dress.

The Doctor laughed loudly at the comment. "Oh Clara" _–Clara-_ "You would not last two days. No hot water and hardly any caviar. You'd have to eat commoner food, like custard and fish fingers and," he shuddered, "apples."

Clara shot him a bemused expression. "I haven't the faintest idea what fish fingers are. I must really be doomed." She laughed and ran ahead a few steps before turning around to walk backwards, her hands clasped tightly behind her back. "And I hate, am absolutely tired of, people dismissing my dreams with a chuckle and a pat on the head."

He just couldn't help the barrage of images and memories that flashed through his mind. Her, clutching her fringed copy of 101 Places to See, telling him she was going to travel, no matter what. Him showing her the stars and anything she could dream of. There was one instance on a particular Wednesday when she asked him if Atlantis actually existed, if the lost city of stories and legends actually had occupied the Earth. Of course it did, he told her. Atlantis was occupied by humanoid aliens during its time, thus resulting in their intense scientific knowledge and ultimately their demise. With a twinkle in her eye she asked if they could go, and how could he deny her? After an impressive day of sightseeing and saving the Atlantian Empress from a radioactive stingray, Clara had grasped him in a large hug and thanked him over and over again. He hadn't laughed at her dreams, and he had showed them to her. He instantly drew her into a hug and assured her that never had anything she'd done or said seem ridiculous, save a few cheeky remarks and the odd time she nearly got them killed by being so _apish_. But, the Doctor noted, never had his Clara felt as derived as this one did right now. If this Clara was his Clara, he would have just swatted her head and brought her into a hug, assuring her that, at least to him, she was important, smart, and that dreams were anything but impossible with him and the TARDIS.

His ancient eyes ached as he observed her walking backwards unsteadily for a number of paces before turning around to go forwards and then repeating the process. Her yellow gown caught the setting sun, making it glow softly. The natural amber highlights in her styled hair nearly twinkled like golden rays of the brightest star. Like music, her small laugh tinkled like bells caught in a breeze. She was so full of human life, but she was so hopeless and so _doomed_.

"I'm so, so sorry." He muttered thickly, his eyes fighting back water. If only she knew what he was actually apologizing for.

She trotted back to his side. "Well, alright. There's something in me, Doctor. I feel it. I don't know what it is, whether I should be an artist, or, I don't know…" Her eyebrows knotted together neatly as she contemplated her next profession, "A dancer! Like Isadora Duncan. A wild pagan spirit." She leapt forward in a burst of energy, landing deftly and whirling around like a dervish. The Doctor laughed and followed after her, his hearts silently breaking as he realized how much he was beginning to love this Clara, just as he loved his own.

…

Strax glowered as he found a new hiding spot in the gigantic and rather filthy boiler room. Blasted human scum, he wished he could just throw grenades at all of them and take a few scalps as spoils of war. That would be the ideal way to spend his day, instead of hiding from these young _boys_ that were too fleshy to even be considered warrior material.

"Bah!" He exclaimed, already supremely frustrated with his circumstance. He hadn't seen the Doctor in a number of hours, and had no idea what the Time Lord was doing, but it probably had something to do with that human boy Clara. So of course Strax was stuck looking into the mysterious letter that still was flashing across the psychic paper tucked neatly into the Doctor's pocket.

For the most part the Sontaran was successful in staying away from the eyes of his fellow passengers. The tiny toothpicks. He could crush any one of them with a simple maneuver. But of _course_, he had to _follow orders_.

"Blimey, those things are scary, a'right? I don't reckon I wan' to look at them again. Send someone else to secure luggage, I sure ain't volunteering no more." The voice of an Irish bloke caught Strax's attention, and he shifted forward from his hiding spot to obtain an advantageous position to eaves drop.

"Well what are they, then? You won't say a word about 'em." Another voice, probably that of a comrade, asked.

Strax flipped open his sonic radar and scanned the surrounding area, two dots coming up on the blinking green screen. The humans were alone.

"If you want to know, you go down there! I sure as hell ain't sayin' nuthin more."

Strax waited until the men had gone before emerging from his hiding position. To the lower storage deck it was.

Finally, some excitement.

…

Painted in orange light, the Doctor and Clara leaned on the A-deck rail aft, shoulder to shoulder. With a large click, the exterior lights of the ship flipped on, but the two were so absorbed in each other and the vast ocean around them they barely noticed.

"So then, what, Mr. Doctor? Tell me your story."

_It would take years,_ he thought sadly. But, being the Doctor, he couldn't resist telling a story. "Well, I've been traveling for a while, and I ended up in Utah for a bit with a few of my friends. Not one of my fondest memories but they have lovely diners there. Of course, Americans never have the right straws for pop; they never add enough fizz. And I've seen almost every wonder in the world, and then a few that some people don't even know exist yet." He let that slip out before he could stop himself. Bugger.

Clara looked at him, her eyes glistening with intrigue and jealousy. "Say we'll go there, sometime… to Utah, to the wonders that haven't been discovered. Even if we never go, and when we reach America we never see each other again, tell me."

She was breaking him, slowly but surely. Absolutely crushing him. "Alright, we're going. You'll drop everything and I'll bring every scrap I have and we'll have picnics on Utah's lakes and we'll drink cheap wine and eat in diners and I'll take you to places only I know about. We'll see stars, every star you can see in the sky. Maybe we'll run. And you'll be fantastic."

She smiled cockily. "I am already fantastic, haven't you heard?"

Oh, she could make him blush. That flirtatious smile, the way she flared her nostrils on her funny shaped nose. This girl, this version of his Clara, was so like the one he traveled with he almost wanted to shout for joy and cry in sorrow all at once.

"You know, I know how to spit like a man." She giggled.

"Spit?" He asked incredulously. "Clara Oswald, I would not expect you to be able to _spit._"

She laughed loudly, throwing her head back. "Well I _can._ Do you want me to teach you?" She asked eagerly, her voice lowering in mischief.

The Doctor could not believe this was happening. She wanted to teach him to spit! Spitting was, in many intergalactic cultures, considered heinous and punishable by decapitation. And then, in many others, spitting was considered a sacrifice to the gods. On Babalushi, for example, spit was so coveted among its aboriginals that they would have jars in many of the houses in which the occupants would spit at least eight times a day as an offering to their god. And then, in many worlds, in many times, spitting was just spitting. And Clara was Clara.

She hacked back her saliva and sent it soaring through the air. "See? You hawk it down, then roll it on your tongue, up to the front, then a big breath and-" She let her next projectile fly, "See!"

The Doctor stared at her, almost afraid. "When on earth did a finishing school pupil learn to spit?"

Clara giggled and turned to answer, her face alight when suddenly, she blanched. Instantly frightened by her expression, the Doctor whirled around, hand already itching for his sonic when he saw an even worse sight than an angry Jackie Tyler herself.

Mrs. Oswald and 'Melody Pond'.

"Mother, may I introduce the Doctor." Clara's composed voice sounded behind him, her voice smooth and dainty, like a proper woman.

"Doctor," River approached him slowly. "It sounds like you're a good man to have around in a sticky spot. A very good man indeed."

The party jumped as a bugler sounded the meal call in the distance, the brassy notes cutting through the tension like a knife.

River groaned. "Why do they always insist on announcing dinner like a damn cavalry charge? Not that I dislike loud noises." She winked cheekily at the Doctor, who returned the flirtatious remark with a scowl.

"Shall we go dress, mother?" Clara suggested, eager to distance herself from the tense situation.

As soon as the pair was out of earshot, River spoke. "Doctor, do you have the faintest idea what you're doing?"

The Doctor rolled the answer around in his head for a bit before responding, "No." He began to walk away before a thought crossed his mind, and he wasn't one for letting such brilliant observations as this one go without having an audience to appreciate it. "You're dead." He accused astutely, drawing himself perhaps a bit too closely and glaring at her a bit too icily.

"Yes," She responded, heartbroken, "I am. And technically you are too, or will be, someday."

The Doctor ignored her comment and continued the barrage of questions. "Then how can you be here? On Trenzalore you were connected to Clara's conscious, but that was _my _Clara. This Clara has no idea what I am or who she really is. So how can you be here?"

She shrugged. "Same reason you are, my love." She held up a small piece of paper with a blinking message on it. "Distress call. Can't resist one of those, now can I?"

The Doctor ran forward and grabbed the paper out of her hand. The same message with the same mysterious signature, _A_, blinked at the bottom. River drew back from him, her eyes appraising him. "What do you expect to happen with her?" She questioned in a hushed whisper. "Have you been following your own time stream to find her? Doctor, the complications-"

"You think I don't know that?" The Doctor exclaimed, barely containing his frustration. "If I followed my time stream, the universe could collapse, the paradoxes could rip a hole in reality and everything would just _end_." He looked at her, his eyes flashing with regret. "But I haven't followed my past line because I wasn't looking for her. I got that message and came looking and there she was, looking all Clara and," he gestured wildly past the two of them, flinging his hand in the air, "pretty." He finished lamely.

River's eyes flashed briefly, but too quickly for the Doctor to take proper notice. Of course, the archeologist recognized she was dead, the only remains of her soul being stored away in a Library galaxies away from the Titanic. The Doctor needed to move on. He needed someone at his side. But it didn't mean it didn't smart when his eyes lit up with protective urges and absolute adoration whenever Clara's name was mentioned. He perhaps, only perhaps, because this _was_ the Doctor, loved River once, but now, the archeologist recognized with a sigh, he had moved on.

"What are you going to do, come April 15th, Doctor?" River implored, her voice losing its harsh edge.

The Time Lord gulped back the rather uncomfortable lump growing in his throat. He had been dreading thinking about that night, the arctic water, the panic, the death. Obviously, the Doctor couldn't bear to see Clara die again- especially not at his hands. For a moment, he considered lying to River, if only to get her off his back about the subject he truthfully had been avoiding. And then he looked at her, his beautiful wife that he loved for at least part of his life in at least a part of his hearts, and he realized he couldn't do such a thing to her. Not now, when she was just an image. Not now, when she deserved so much more in her life and she too had died, in a sense, protecting him. So, he mustered up his courage, what little he had when dealing with her and answered, "I don't know."

…

After donning his best bowtie, the Doctor made his way to the Grand Staircase located at the edge of the A- deck. Overhead the six story staircase hung a crystal chandelier suspended from an enormous glass dome. The lights in the chandelier cast themselves like dappled sunlight on the marble flooring, upon which the Doctor was tapping his foot nervously. The people mucking about around him, women in floor length dresses, elaborate hairstyles and abundant jewelry galore, and the gentlemen in evening dress, standing with one hand at the small of their backs, prepared to bow at the next dame they saw all seemed to blend into one another. A few of these high class men sent a perfunctory nod as a greeting, and the Doctor, in his awkward splendor, would either rush up and give a messy handshake or smile and wave nervously.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Cal coming down the stairs with Clara's mother Ellie on one arm, bedecked in jewelry. The Doctor bounded forward, prepared to give his best socialite welcome, only to be rather affronted when they walked straight past him, neither one recognizing him. Was it his new bowtie? Just before the Gallifreyan could go forward and reintroduce himself, his nostrils caught a whiff of something beautiful. His head whipped around, and there, standing at the top of the Staircase, was Clara.

She had been a mystery wrapped in an enigma squeezed in a skirt that was a just a bit… too tight. Now, his impossible girl was a vision in red and black, her low-cut dress showing off her beautiful neck and shoulders, her arms sheathed in white gloves coming just above the elbow. The embroidered fabric caught the light of the chandelier, twinkling as she began her descent. However, the glints of light were not the source of the Doctor's temporary blindness. Clara. Beautiful, impossible. He kept his eyes trained on her, absolutely hypnotized.

Realizing his manners- wait, what this Earth, or was this Argolis V? Was it customary to bow, or to grasp her head and bring their foreheads together while humming?-the Doctor stepped forward and decided on the former. Gently, he grasped her gloved hand, and all the while smiling, bowed and kissed the back of her fingers. In all her tough exterior, Clara flushed and beamed noticeably.

"Always wanted to do that." He muttered shyly. Inwardly, the Doctor didn't even put up a fight with himself when he realized what a blushing teenager he had become around her. For Rassilon's sake, he was a _Time Lord_, the _last _Time Lord. She was just a human girl. She should be the one bowing to him. But then again, she was Clara.

Even before Clara could speak, the Doctor heard the approaching click of a pair of shoes belonging to a gentleman he rather disliked.

"Cal, surely you remember the Doctor?"

The ridiculous trot stopped, and was replaced with the booming voice of Clara's fiancée. "Doctor! I didn't recognize you."

"Perhaps it's the bowtie." The Doctor smiled and tweaked his favorite accessory. "It's rather cool, don't you suppose?"

"Funny," Cal replied without humor. His cold eyes traveled up and down the Doctors appearance before finally flicking to Clara and then back to her companion. "You know, you could almost pass for a gentleman."

…

Like a ballroom at a palace, or the throne room of an Emperor's spaceship, alive and lit by a constellation of chandeliers, full of elegantly dressed people and trilling music from the string quartet tucked in the corner, the Dining Saloon served its purpose well. Mingling occurred, as did drinking and gossiping. Clara kept her hold tight on the Doctor, steering him towards any person worth talking to and then away from them as soon as he turned the conversation topic to his bowtie or made a rude remark. They assumed, Clara figured, that he was one of them, a young captain of industry; new money, of course, but still a member of the club. As they sat down for dinner, Clara grimaced. She could only image what type of remarks her mother was going to make towards the Doctor and his lack of wealth. Her eyes made their way back to her odd companion, and she couldn't fight back the smile on her face. Despite his big chin and lack of eyebrows, he was absurdly handsome, especially when he looked down at her through his floppy brown hair. Clara wasn't just attracted to him because of his lanky frame and fortunate features, however. There was an air about him, a mystery that smelled of adventure. He was, she realized, everything she had ever wanted and everything she could not have.

"So, tell us of the accommodations in steerage, Mr. Doctor. I hear they're quite good on this ship." Ellie inquired, breaking Clara's train of thought.

The Doctor, seated opposite Clara and flanked by Cal and another gentleman the Doctor knew absolutely everything about- Thomas Andrews- a man of no importance- put down his fork and glanced first at Clara and then at River, who was also seated at the table.

"Well, the best I've seen, ma'am. Hardly any rats. And they're all quite friendly." Clara chuckled at his comment, but then covered it up with a cough. She motioned surreptitiously for the Doctor to take his napkin off his plate, but he just smiled in return. Why would he take it off when he hadn't even eaten yet?

Ever so helpfully, Cal boomed his voice out to the table, "The Doctor is joining us from third class. He was of some assistance to my fiancée last night." He turned to the Doctor and put on a simpering pout and a falsetto voice. "This is foie gras. It's goose liver."

The Doctor turned to him. "Yes, I'm actually aware. But I don't think the goose would appreciate it if it knew you were acting so childish around it. Really, geese are intelligent folks. Don't insult them."

His remark catalyzed whispers and furtive glances amongst the dinner guests, the only ones not taking part being River and Clara, who were laughing and gaping at his respectively. The Doctor ignored River and held Clara's gaze for a few seconds more than appropriate. She let her eyes fall as a waiter approached the Doctor with a shining silver tray.

"How do you take your caviar, sir?"

Cal answered for him, "Just a soupcon of lemon…" He cast his eyes down upon the Doctor reproachfully, but set a grin upon his face that dripped in false companionship. "It improves the flavor with champagne."

Hastily, the Doctor turned to the waiter and held his hand up. "No caviar for me, thanks. I've never liked it much, and I would much rather save my appetite for some white breaded fish. Preferably in the shape of fingers." He added in a low voice, Clara smiling mischievously at him through her eyelashes. The Doctor found himself staring once again, _definitely _not noting and _definitely_ not appreciating the way the low candlelight made her absurdly beautiful and did a wonderful job of _not _making her nose funny looking in any way.

Ellie flicked her icy glare between the two of them and then spoke up again, her voice carrying a weight of authority across the table. "And where do you live, Doctor?"

The Doctor smiled. _Like I would show you._ "Well, lots of places really. I've traveled most of my life, which makes it seem altogether a very long existence and a rather short one at the same time. My real home doesn't exist anymore, it…it burned some years ago when I was just a child. So now I go wherever people need me."

She lifted an eyebrow at him. "Are you a man of medicine, or is that why you call yourself Doctor?"

The Gallifreyan smirked and looked down at the table. "You could say that, yes."

"So you find that sort of rootless existence appealing, do you?" Ellie's cool remark earned a chuckle from the table's guests.

"Well," The Doctor mulled over his answer for a bit, turning a few over in his head, performing some algorithms over how his response would be received, before looking over at Clara and tossing all that work out the window. "Well, it's a big world. A big galaxy. A bigger universe that's constantly expanding and contracting and shifting and changing. New life is born every day and wars are fought and there's tragedy and beauty occurring every second. I want to see it all before I go. I once promised a friend, her name was Rose, that I would take her to see Barcelona, but she…died… before we got the chance to go. You can't wait around, because you never know what hand you're going to get dealt next. Who knows what the eons are going to bring. We can't control time, and no one knows quite what it is besides being timey wimey and wibbly wobbly. See, my…people… died in a fire when I was young, and I always blamed myself. I had to watch it all burn. And I've lost things no one can possible imagine. But traveling, running, it seems to take the hurt away. So, I've been on the road since. Being alive and running for your life, seeing things, impossible things," his eyes flicked to Clara, "teaches you to live life as it comes at you. To make each day count. To make impossible things… possible."

River raised her glass in a salute. "Well said, Doctor."

Andrews hoisted his own empty glass and chuckled drunkenly. "Here, here."

Clara reached out a slender arm and grasped her own gauntlet. She elevated it, almost as an act of solidarity. Their eyes locked across the table, words unspoken passing between them. The Doctor tried to fight her appeal, to fight the adoration and love growing inside him, but it was as if he was tumbling down a black hole; an utterly worthless battle. And he was almost completely ignorant to it.

Clara's voice shocked him out of his reverie. "To making it possible." Her chocolate eyes held his cool eyes for a second longer before turning to pan over her audience, a becoming smile on her face. The company complied, all repeating the toast heartily. Ellie scowled, tucking a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear and asked in a flustered voice, "How is it you have the means to travel, Mr. Doctor?"

The Gallifreyan's green eyes flashed in mirth. "Please, just the Doctor."

"Well, Doctor who?" Eleanor retorted, clenching gloved hands together in frustration.

Giddily, he responded, "Just the Doctor." Suddenly anxious to move, he leaned forward in his seat, drawing together the high class socialites in a huddle. "And I don't need money to travel. I have my own ship. Bluest blue you ever did set your eyes on. Oh, she's a beauty." Subconsciously, his eyes flicked to Clara. "Absolutely astounding."

Perhaps a little too clumsily, Andrews raised himself from the table. "Well, join me for a brandy, gentlemen? Now that dinner is over, we can bid adieu to the ladies." His eyebrows waggled at River, who returned the pass with a smirk and a small wink. The men shuffled out of their chairs, aiding the women as they did so. Clara beckoned to the Doctor, who bounded over to her perhaps a bit too readily. She barely hid her smile at his childlike behavior. "Now," she whispered, "They'll retreat into a cloud of smoke and congratulate each other on being masters of the universe."

The Doctor laughed. "Master of the universe? How silly. Everybody knows there's no such thing. I've met Emperors of Galaxies, but never of the _universe_."

Before Clara could respond to his bizarre remark, Andrews interrupted. "Joining us, Doctor? You don't want to stay out here with the women, do you?"

Clara breathed inwardly to control her fluttering heartbeat set aflame at the idea of her mysterious savior spending more time with her.

"No thanks. I'm heading back. Got some letters to answer." The Doctor replied, wringing his hands together, the message on the psychic paper paying a revisit to the forefront of his mind. A small twinge of his conscience reminded him about Strax and the Doctor's obvious neglect of the warrior potato. Thankfully the Sontaran hadn't resorted to killing out of boredom. Yet.

Grasping the Doctor's thin shoulder a bit too tightly, Cal said, "Probably best. It'll be all business and politics, that sort of thing. Wouldn't interest you. Good of you to come." And with that, the gentleman left, each either ignoring the third class passenger completely or giving a curt nod in awkward acceptance.

Once the men were out of earshot, Clara whipped around to the Doctor. "Must you go?" She begged.

The Doctor grasped her hand, wanting to take her in his arms and kiss her forehead like he would if she was his old Clara. Instead he drew the palm of her gloved hand to his mouth and kissed it, maintaining eye contact the entire time. _Really,_ he thought, _when did I become so suave?_ "Time for me to retreat back into my cave with my rat friends." And when Clara glanced around at the sound of her mother clearing her throat disapprovingly, he quickly made his exit.

Sensing a loss in presence, Clara pivoted on the spot, utterly distressed when she discovered the Doctor's disappearance. However, a note, folded into the palm of her other hand, crinkled as she shifted around, instantly catching her attention. Her chocolate eyes scanned around her to make sure no one was watching before she unfolded the creases.

Inside the paper were just a few words, scrawled in flamboyant handwriting that obviously belonged to the Doctor.

"_Make it possible. Meet me at the clock."_

…

_I'm pretending Matt isn't leaving because then I'll just start crying. I thought we had at least until 2014, but I guess not, dear readers. _

_Tell me what you think! Any suggestions, guesses about the psychic paper letter, what you would like to see, any questions, anything! Don't forget to review! Again, massive apologies for the delay._

_Love you all!_

**_a/n- sorry for posting this again as a new chapter. I made one change to this chapter and I had no idea that the 'save' button actually saved it so in my jet lagged induced glory I deleted this chapter and had to reupload it. (I ended up being surprised with another vacation last night... this time to my cousin's house in Norway... red-eye flights and I do not get along, and I'm currently at an airport in Iceland, my computer plugged into a wall and a starbucks in my hand. Sorry guys. As a gift of apology I'm already working on the next chapter and will have it up soon! _**


	5. Chapter 5: Josephine's Flying Machine

_So let me apologize… again. I was at a music camp for four weeks and obviously was completely shut off from all technology. I hope you guys can have it in your hearts to forgive me! I haven't given up on this story just yet!_

…

Clara somehow managed to escape her harping mother, coming up with an excuse that she had to arrange tea with a companionable woman she had met during the cocktail hour before dinner the night before. Now she crept stealthily across the A-deck foyer, taking care to tread lightly. The ornate room was completely empty, as the men were smoking cigars and drinking and the woman had already departed for their individual cabins, preparing for their beauty rest. Overhead the crystal dome reflected the midnight sky dappled in stars, casting Clara into an ethereal feeling of floating. As she breathed in steadily to catch her breath she noticed the Doctor, his back to her, studying the ornate clock with its carved figures of Honor and Glory. In the back of her mind, she barely acknowledged it softly striking the hour. Quickly she gathered her skirts and ascended the staircase, her heart beating faster and faster as she got closer and closer to him. As if he could hear her thundering pulse, he turned and smiled gently.

"Want to go to a real party?"

…

Strax could tell something was not quite right by the time he got to the lower storage deck. The small hairs on the top of his rotund head were standing up and prickling, and even though it was not becoming or honorable of a warrior to admit, he had the distinct sensation of fear pooling in his rather steely innards. He turned his torch on and attached it to his shoulder pad, leaving his hands free to hold his rather large gamma ray gun, which of course he brought strictly for emergencies and not just because he was eager to see what it did when fired.

The storage deck was dimly lit by primitive light sources that flickered on and off every minute or so. Every time they did so, Strax got the uneasy feeling he was being followed. Of course, if that _were _the case, his superior warrior-alien senses would _obviously_ be able to detect it, and because they were _not_ definitively alerting him to any belligerent presence, Strax tried his best to suppress the nagging feeling.

The Sontaran stealthily padded forward, the torch on his shoulder illuminating the path when the bulbs overhead flickered shut.

A haunting, childish laughter filled his ears as the darkness consumed him.

"Hello?" Strax called out. "I demand whoever just spoke to reveal your identity, or I will resort to using force to kill and then uncover your dead, cold body."

The lights flickered, and Strax felt a definite whooshing sensation behind him. A second later, the lighting returned, and all was silent.

Despite his reservations to investigate into the sound of boyish glee, Strax decided to head for the farthest corner of the storage deck, where the TARDIS was being kept safely. It's blue façade stood proudly in the corner of the vast room, police box sign and top light radiating calmly. Strax rapped violently, but the ship merely groaned in response, her doors shut as tight as ever.

"Bah, stupid ship." The Sontaran dismissed the TARDIS with a wave of his boxy hand and turned around to return to his scouting mission.

"By the Sontaran Empire!" Strax exclaimed in alarm, his gun falling out of his hands and firing a shot. The gamma ray shot straight forward and merely dissolved in the presence of the new enemy standing face to face with the disavowed warrior.

In his fear, Strax could only process the thought that if he blinked, he would most certainly die.

…

Once again, the Doctor had brought Clara to the third class general room, where the laughter and raucous behavior of the night before seemed nearly identical to the one currently before the first class beauty's eyes. Her strange companion abandoned her almost immediately to dance with a young girl, leaving Clara to observe the dancing, drinking, smoking, laughing, and brawling. Eventually, once Clara spotted the pair, she mustered up the courage and strutted towards them.

"May I cut in, miss?" Clara asked cheekily to the young girl currently standing on the Doctors feet?"

The girl pouted, but the Doctor patted her back and lightly scooted the thin girl off his feet and whispered in her ear, "You're still my best girl, eh? Off you pop." She turned and smiled delightedly before scampering off. Believing himself quite accomplished, the Doctor stood confidently in front of Clara, staring her straight in the eyes. He acutely noticed her trembling body and the gooseflesh covering her collarbone and shoulders, despite the high temperatures of the room and the light perspiration on her forehead. Rather clumsily, because he _is _the Doctor, he grabbed onto her and slid his left hand onto the small of her back. Dimly, he felt her pulse quicken under the pads of his fingers, reacting to his touch.

"I don't know the steps." She mustered out, her voice breathless.

"Oh, don't worry about it. I'm quite the expert dancer. In fact, I've invented a few line dances myself, back in the older days." He grinned childishly at her bemused expression before taking his first step. "Just don't think."

The fiddle let a few twanging notes rise into the air before the rest of the makeshift band joined in, and the two began their dance. Clara, despite all her training in classical ballroom technique and ballet, failed to adjust to the Doctor's rather sporadic leading steps. They floundered awkwardly for a bit, before Clara was overcome with a rather brilliant idea.

"Wait, hold on a mo'." She said as she bent down and pulled off her high heeled shoes, flinging them without abandon into the fray around them. Eventually the tune ended in a mad rush and crescendo. Completely exhilarated, the Doctor stepped away from Clara in a flourish, allowing her to take a rather ungraceful bow followed by an elegant ballet ployer, feet turned out perfectly. Egged on by the applause celebrating her actions, Clara grabbed the Doctors hand and whirled him to a table. As Clara shows off her drinking abilities and rather muscular feet, the Doctor felt an object in his pocket grow rather uncomfortably hot. He reached into his breast pocket and fished around, casting the miscellaneous objects further in the recesses of the seams_-curse his brilliant ideas of pockets that are bigger on the inside _- until he finally scalded his hand on whatever was overheating. Gingerly, he picked it up and was utterly dismayed to discover it was the psychic paper, the message now pulsing faster than ever on the crinkled page.

"Alright, shhh." The Doctor consoled, stroking it slowly and waving his sonic over it discreetly. "What's the matter, eh?"

As soon as the head had come, however, it left, and the message signed by A stood there, inked into the paper as if nothing had happened.

…

Overhead the boat deck, the stars blazed, so bright and clear the Milky Way appeared dazzlingly in the normally foggy sky. Clara and the Doctor walked along the row of lifeboats, still giddy from the party.

"Come Josephine in my flying machine," Clara sung out, rather off key. The Doctor merely observed her silently, his head still torn about the psychic paper and it's odd behavior from earlier.

"And it's up she goes! Up she goes! In the air she goes. Where? There she goes!" Clara reached her arms out towards the stars and giggled before twirling beneath their cool light. Her breath from her mouth and nostrils twirled around her in the chilly air, swirling around the crown of her head like a halo before disappearing into the salty air. "Oh, wouldn't it be wonderful to reach the stars in a flying machine, Doctor?" She asked in a breathy voice. Her eyes flitted to the entrance of the First Class Entrance they were merely yards from and back to the vast cosmos above them.

"It's magnificent, isn't it? So grand and endless."

The Doctor smiled sadly. "There's an end to it, of course. Someday people will reach it. The question is whether they should have or not. But everything seems endless because it seems impossible that it could possibly end. But it does. Everything ends, everything dies."

Clara turned to him. "What an alarming thing to say!"

He merely frowned sadly before returning to his original expression of melancholy. "But, Clara, that doesn't mean we can't enjoy the beauty while it lasts. Just because we know things are going to end doesn't mean we can't explore them. Someday, maybe you'll go on a flying machine just like Josephine's, and someone will travel with you, and you'll see the stars. You'll realize how much there is to discover before it all ends. Time is relative, when you're up there." His eyes wandered up to his proper home, the glistening stars reflecting in his cool eyes. "You could be up there for decades or centuries or millennia, and it just feels like you've been there an afternoon."

Clara felt her breath catch in her throat. "The possibility of such things make you so sad, Doctor. Why?" Her eyes searched his face before squarely locking onto his ancient eyes.

"I am," he said, "two things, Clara. One, is very certain that someday, you will see glorious things. And the other is sad. Impossibly sad."

Overcome with a feeling of empathy towards the grieving man, Clara reached her hand out and settled it near his own. Their pinkies touched, and a course of electricity passed between them before the sensation settled into a warm feeling of understanding and love, all within the square inch of contact.

"Look! A shooting star!" Clara said, pointing suddenly. "That was a long one. When I was little, I used to think that whenever I saw a shooting star, it was a soul going to heaven."

The Doctor couldn't possibly explain to her the reality of the situation, not when she looked so happy. So he smiled and said. "I like that. Aren't we supposed to wish on it, or something like that? Customs, and all." He added when Clara shot him an amused expression, one slender eyebrow cocked.

"What would you wish for?" He asked, his voice losing its volume as his eyes lost themselves in her proximity and beauty. After a beat, he pulled away, scolding himself for how low his walls and barriers have fallen in her presence.

"The stars." Clara whispers. "For something…awesome. You?"

He stares at her and then up at the sky. "Something I can't have."

…

The next morning, Clara stepped onto the bright private promenade deck outside her adjoined suite with Cal. Sunlight splashed across the rich hardwood floors and the table set in the center of it, casting small rainbows through the crystal glasses and pitchers atop the small stand. She placed herself gingerly into her seat, careful to avoid making any sort of noise that would displease Cal. Clara could feel the cold sweat running down her back as the tension in the air rose. Her eyes momentarily met with the maid, Jenny, before Clara took the coffee from the table and took a small sip.

"I had hoped you would come to me last night." Cal said stoically.

"I was tired." Clara said, her voice as stony as she could muster. The coffee burned her tongue on her second sip, and she hastily put down the china glass.

"Yes," Cal said as he flipped the newspaper he was pretending to read, "Your exertions below deck were no doubt _exhausting_."

Clara's spine straightened immediately, her face fought to remain impassive, and her hands balled into tight fists as she said, "I see you had that undertaker of a manservant follow me."

Cal tossed the paper aside and slammed a palm down on the table. "You will never behave like that again! Do you understand?"

"I am not some foreman in your mills that you can command! I am your fiancée-"

Before Clara could finish, Cal exploded in an animalistic roar of rage, sweeping the breakfast china and crystal off the table with a clamorous crash. He swept over to her in one shocking moment, glowering over her and gripping the sides of her chair, ensuring that she is trapped between his arms.

"Yes!" He bellowed, "You are! And my wife… in practice, if not yet by law." His voice lowered, as he became himself again. "So you will honor me, as a wife is required to honor her husband! I will not be made out a fool! Is this in any way unclear?"

Clara refused to shrink into her chair. Instead she frowned right back at him, her brown eyes flinty and defiant.

Jenny entered a second later and gasped at the sight before her. Cal straightened up and swept a hand through his mussed hair. "We had a little accident. I'm sorry, Jenny."

And immediately, he charged out of the room, not looking back.

…

"This is not a game, Clara!" Ellie scolded, wheeling on her daughter.  
"Our situation is precarious. You know the money's gone!"

Clara knotted her hands in her hair in frustration. "Of course I know it's gone. You remind me every day."

Ellie stepped over to the bedframe where Clara sat and beckoned her to stand.  
"Your father left us nothing but a legacy of bad debts hidden by a good name. And that name is the only card we have to play."

Clara turned, grabbed the corset strings of Ellie's garmet and pulled.

"I don't understand you," Ellie lamented, "It is a fine match with Cal Hockley, and it will insure our survival."

"But how can you put this on my shoulders?" Clara nearly begged. She turned to her mother and was shocked to see the naked fear in cold Ellie's eyes.

"Do you want to see me work as a seamstress?" Ellie's voice broke. "Is that what you want? Do you want to see our fine things sold at an auction, our memories scattered to the winds? My God, Rose, how can you be so selfish?"

Clara rolled her eyes and fought back the tears threatening to rise up. "It's unfair." She wanted to kick herself at how lost and childish she sounded, but Clara couldn't help it.

"Of course it's unfair! We're women. Our choices are never easy." Ellie said, turning back around and beckoning for Clara to continue her task. Perhaps a bit too eagerly, Clara ensured the corset was pulled extra tight.

…

"Doctor!" Strax called, running as fast as his stout legs could carry him. "Doctor!"

The man was resting in their small third class quarters, lanky body stretched out on the small cot, reading the peculiar journal he always kept with him.

The Doctor looked up from his riveting biography and grinned widely when he saw his alien companion. "Straxy, good on ya mate, I was wondering where you had headed off to, you daft potato."

Strax grabbed onto a bedframe pole to steady himself. "Doctor, storage deck…TARDIS…in danger!"

Immediately the Doctor sobered and leapt out of bed. "What?" He asked, staring at Strax, his voice lowering in concern and his eyes darkening in anger. "What do you mean?"

"I know who sent the message! The message across time and space, in an endless, continuing loop with no apparent life source giving it off! A…the A was for Angels, Doctor! There are Weeping Angels on the Titanic!"

…

_Review, review, review! I know this wasn't very long or very good, and it's gonna get a hella AU now, but a review, a favorite, a holler, would be swell. It'll mean a longer chapter a lot sooner! (especially since my summer activity is now 100% complete) _

_-livrich_


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